


Drunk Apollo

by onanotherworld



Series: Strive To Be Alive [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluffy, M/M, Piningjolras, Stupid Boys, Terminal Illnesses, amidst all the angst, but right now, but this is only, drunkjolras, fluffy fluff, grantaire thinks his love is unrequieted, slight angst, there will be more angsty angst after this, who thinks his love is unrequieted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 10:11:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onanotherworld/pseuds/onanotherworld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is drunk, thankfully, Grantaire is there to help, and some earth- shattering realizations come to light.</p>
<p> <em>“Why do you care?” I query, forcing my hand to move on Apollo’s back again, and my legs to untense.   </em></p>
<p> <em>“Because… Beacause…” he starts and falters.</em></p>
<p> <em>"Go on," I encourage.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunk Apollo

**Author's Note:**

> READ THE OTHER PARTS!!!! well, you don't have to, but this would make more sense
> 
> plus, i own nothing bar my typos and tense issues.

_A couple of weeks later_

 

I'm sitting alone in my apartment, staring blackly at the wall, thinking about how messed up the last weeks have been. Enjolras has been acting weird. Last week, I think it was, it’s funny that you never notice time passing until you don’t have much left. Anyway, at this meeting, he shouted at the bottled blonde barista that brought me the wrong drink. Everybody was shocked, and he looked sheepish, mumbled an excuse and left. I followed him out, and tried to corner him, but he fled like a startled deer, Combeferre and Courf close on his heels, leaving me with a disgruntled Jehan and Eponine to deal with. He’s been tip-toeing around me, not cutting my arguments to shreds like normal, not hitting home unless I get him really annoyed, which happens at least once every meeting, and then he looks contrite and offers me an apology. When he does this, I’m seething on the inside, not at him, but at this stupid blockage in my heart, screwing with the group dynamic. Also, when we all went out together on Saturday, Enjolras kept close to me, sitting on the barstool next to mine, and keeping a subtle eye on me. Well, he _thought_ it was subtle. Unluckily for him, in the last five years I’ve known him, I spent it watching for his nuances. And I know them. I really don’t know what’s going on. 

 

The music is pounding from my crap speakers that I got second- hand from Bahorel from the gym. Heavy metal is a usual safety from my unreasonably loud thoughts. This time it doesn’t, so I turn to my painting to try and stop them. I start with water- washed canvas, a blank, virgin white. I breathe in deep breaths, and clear my mind. The paint brush moves of its’ own accord. I let it move around, changing colours when it wishes too, and my mind is blessedly blank. 

 

I don’t hear the knocking at first, until whoever is there is banging on the door with all the force of a bulldozer. I flick my eyes to the battered clock on the kitchenette counter. Nearly midnight. Unless it’s Eponine or Jehan to come and talk to me, I don’t know who it is, but it doesn’t sound like either of them. Ep’s knock is quick and light like a bird’s; Jehan’s is an almost musical rhythm, whereas this sounds like someone is trying to break down the door. I flash a quick glance at my painting. It’s Enjolras, unsurprisingly. Him, standing tall and handsome, me in darker colours prostrate at his feet. I sigh, and throw the wet painting behind the couch, and kick it under. As I set it down, the paintbrush jabs the thick scarring on my wrist. I rub a thumb over them absentmindedly, trying to navigate the mess of my crappy flat, while shouting over the heavy metal, “Just a second! I’m coming!”

 

“You better be! I’ve been waiting outside for five minutes!” the voice screams back, and it’s undoubtedly Courfeyrac. How strange. I reach the door and pull it open, spreading a sea of junk around, clearing a small clean patch on the floor. And yes, there stand Courfeyrac; soaked by a rain that I hadn’t known had started. He looks bedraggled, his hair sticks up in clumps that look like he’s just been dragged through a hedge backwards, and he has circles under his eyes from the lack of sleep. “Thanks,” Courf pants.

 

“You look like hell,” I remark, aiming for casual. “What are you doing here? It’s the middle of the night, and I thought revolutionaries needed their sleep.” I know that Courf is the most extroverted and night living out of the Golden Trio, but it’s a Thursday, and he has classes tomorrow. I do too, but I never turn up. I used to, sometimes, but since I found out about the Heart Thing, I just drink and be merry. I snort bitterly at this thought, and Courf shoots me a puzzled look amidst his annoyance. He cuffs me around the back of the head, and I yelp theatrically, before hitting him back. We dissolve into a playful scuffle for a few minutes. “Well, that was nice, but couldn’t this have waited for tomorrow’s meeting?” 

 

Courf’s look becomes more serious, and he straightens and stares into my eyes. “I didn’t come he for that, R, it’s about Enjolras.” My throat constricts, my pulse picks up to a dangerous level. I feel the beginnings of the pains.

 

“What about Enjolras?” I hope the all- consuming worry in my voice isn’t as apparent as it appears to me. Courf crooks an eyebrow at my tone. I want the earth to open and swallow me up at this point.

 

“He’s drunk, really drunk.” Oh, it’s not that bad at all, hardly worth coming over here for. My concern deflates.

 

I shrug my shoulders nonchalantly, step backwards and almost trip over a beer bottle. My cheeks heat as I regain my feet. “It doesn’t sound serious. Why are you here to tell me this? You and ‘Ferre should be able to deal with this by yourself, you shouldn’t need the help of a professional.” I call myself a professional drunk when picking up women or men in bars. I don’t like them knowing much about me, so I can leave silently in the mornings and never see them again. It’s the way I like it. 

 

Courf looks at me with exasperation. “It’s _you_ he’s asking for, you dimwit. He won’t shut up, won’t tell us how he got so drunk, or where he’s been. He’s been asking about you incessantly for the past couple of hours, it’s been driving us mad, so ‘Ferre finally sent me over here to get you.”

 

My muscles tighten. _It can’t be_ me _Enjolras is asking for, maybe they just got confused._ seeing my facial expression, Courf continues threateningly, “I’ll drag you there myself if you don’t come now. I can’t stand another second of Enjolras moaning for you.” Oh God. Wrong choice of words. I’m sure a blush now covers my face and neck in an ugly shade of beet red. 

 

“Fine. I’ll come.” My mouth talks, bypassing my brain completely in the process. My brain’s screaming, _don’t do it! You’ll regret it!_ However, I could never resist a hint of Enjolras asking for me. Courf does is victory dance around the doorway to my flat. 

 

“Yes! I won’t have to listen to Enjolras anymore!” 

 

The ride over to ‘Ferre’s, Courf’s and Apollo’s apartment is around ten minutes long, because the three of them brought a black dented ford focus between them, which they have affectionately named Bessie. Well, Courf named it, the other two just sort of when along with it, because it’s hard to argue with him when he wants something, he just turns on the puppy eyes, and then everyone is falling in line to make him happy again. Thank God I’m immune. I hope. Courf talks constantly on the ride over, detailing when they found Enjolras gabbling on the couch, and _how_ he was asking for me. In ways, that I really didn’t want to listen too, because of an in depth analysis about how Enjolras moaned my name in various ways. And, because Courfeyrac is the master of innuendos, there were many, many ways that it could be taken the wrong way, and unfortunately, my mind is in the gutter. My pants got uncomfortably tight, before I got myself under control, and hopefully before Courf saw.

 

Bessie stuttered to a halt outside the block. I opened the door, got out, and slammed it, earning a reproachful look and words that misted in the night air. “Don’t do that to Bessie!” he says, smoothing his hands over the roof lovingly, “You could hurt her!” I roll my eyes and snort, fogging up the air in front of me. 

 

Courf typed in the code to enter the block, and we stepped into the foyer. It was considerably cleaner than the hellhole in my block. It looked cheap, but was clean. It even had elevators. We stepped in, and Courf punched the button to the fourth floor. Some generic music plays in the background, and he dances to it, grinning at me. I roll my eyes again. The lift doors ding open in an obscenely cheerful way. We walk down a cheaply carpeted corridor to apartment 4F, and Courf busts in the door, singsonging, “I have the magicman!” I smirk slightly at ‘Ferre, who is reclining on the long, comfy- looking couch, with his glasses on his forehead. I tilt my head to one side as I hear incomprehensible muttering coming down the corridor. 

 

“You do.” ‘Ferre says, pushing his glasses down his straight nose and I bow exaggeratedly.

 

“I am here, my lords and masters, to do as you command,” I say in a sarcastic tone with a slight smile on my face as I stand up properly again. 

 

“I’m glad to hear it, R.” ‘Ferre replies, standing, “I’m sure Courf’s explained the situation.”

 

“Yes. In detail.” I cast Courf a Look. He stares back innocently, the bastard. 

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Courf sniffs, “Anyways, I’m off to bed. Make sure to get pictures of drunk Enjolras for blackmail, R.”

 

“Will do.” I respond, and ‘Ferre sends us both an exasperated, half- hearted glare.

 

“Can’t you not try and annoy him for twenty- four hours?” 

 

“Nope!” Me and Courf chorus, and then we laugh. It’s nice to laugh again after so long. ‘Ferre sighs. 

 

“Fine. Enjy is on the second room on the right. I’m done for the night.” They both leave me and go to their respective rooms. Courf calls through the door. “Try not to fuck too loudly!” Combeferre’s sigh is audible from the middle of their living room. I stifle a chuckle. 

 

I pad quietly down the hallway, feeling nervousness rise in my chest. What if it wasn’t me he was asking for? What if he looks at me with disgust and hate in his eyes? I couldn’t stand it if he did. I reach the second room on the right, and in the wood, a French flag is carved, with _Enjolras_ engraved in cursive. On anybody else I know, this would be childish, but with Enjolras, it just seems right. The door creaks almost silently as I open it, and the nonsense muttering I heard in the living room grows louder and more distinctive. It seems to be one word repeated over and over again, and I’m still too far away to make out the word. Once the door is fully open, I see Enjolras lying on side in bed, the sheets ruffled and blankets twisted, but for now he’s still, red- rimmed eyes open and mouth moving, in a single word. He’s shirtless, and my heart picks up, his muscles are bronzed and he’s so beautiful it makes my heart ache. Golden locks spill messily over the pillow, and the bedside lamp is on. I close the door until it clicks behind me. 

 

“Enjolras?” I whisper nervously, and he whips towards me, pupils dilated, stinking of drink. I flinch back a step ready to apologise and leave, but he says in a voice that slurs until its’ almost unrecognizable, “R! You came!” He stands, wobbling like a sapling in high wind. He catches my wrist and drags me towards the bed. I’m too in shock to do anything but let myself be pulled. When Apollo almost tumbles, my instincts kick in and I grab is waist, pulling one of his arms over my shoulder, laying him carefully down on the bed. His grip on my wrist is iron though, and I’m jerked down to sit on the side of his bed, when he carefully makes room for me to sit cross- legged, which is my favourite way to sit, but I didn’t think that he knew that about me. 

 

Enjolras is staring at me in worship, and I feel uncomfortable, he should be worshipped, worthless old me. To try and remove some of this discomfort, and to ignore the voice screaming bloody murder in the back of my head that I’m actually sitting on Enjolras’ bed! “Why are you drunk, Apollo?” he shifts, looking embarrassed as a drunk person can get. He curls his body around mine, burying his face in my thigh. I stop breathing, as my mind screeches to a halt. This can’t possibly be reality.

 

“I was sad, so I thought I’d copy you.” Enjolras sounds like a child that put its’ mother’s make-up on without her permission. 

 

I cautiously stroke my hand against his blonde locks, and he pushes his head to my hand like a cat instead of a person. A warm glow settles in my chest. “You shouldn’t do that, Enjy.” 

 

“Why not?” he sounds more like himself, rebellious, and I can’t think of a reason that I can speak aloud to him, so I change the topic, absently rubbing soothing circles on his back. 

 

“Why were you sad?” I ask instead.

 

“Why am I sad, you mean.”

 

“Of course, whatever.” Enjolras relaxes more each time I complete a circle. 

 

“’m sad ‘cause I can’t stop your heart thing, or you being sad.” My mind stops again, and I find a lump in my throat. Why does he care?

 

“Why do you care?” I query, forcing my hand to move on Apollo’s back again, and my legs to untense. 

 

“Because… Because…” he starts and falters, pushing his head further into my leg. 

 

“Go on,” I encourage, my heart now beating too rapidly for its own good. 

 

“Because I love you.” My world stops. The words were slurred but unmistakable. Time freezes as I stare unblinkingly down towards the back of Enjolras’ head. He can’t mean that. It’s just the alcohol talking. I relax as soon as I realize this. No earth- shattering pronouncements for me today, thank God.

 

“How much did you have to drink?” I inquire, still rubbing his back.

 

“A couple of shots," I roll my eyes. 

 

“Lightweight.” I snort, and Enjolras lifts his head to glare at me, feebly hitting my arm and then dropping his head. “Go to sleep, Enjy, you’ll feel better in the morning.” I continue softly, although it’s a total lie. He’ll feel like shit in the morning. All the same, he settles, but when I try to get up, he clenched my wrist in another iron grasp. “Stay,” he mumbles the words thick with sleep, but his grip inescapable.

 

“Okay, okay, I’ll stay.” I reply, and he calms, but winds his body closer to me leaving a small gap that I can stick my legs through. Enjolras’ breathing slows and deepens in the rhythm of a drunken sleep. I try to get up, but he tenses and frowns in his sleep, when I relax, Enjolras loosens, relaxes and smiles a small smile. My head begins to feel foggy with the lack of sleep, and I begin to feel my upper body sag down to rest my head on the soft part between Apollo’s hips and ribcage, my shoulder pressing gently into his stomach. I feel like I’m filled with lead, however much the voice of common sense in the back of my head tells me to get up; I don’t listen. My breathing slips into Enjolras’ rhythm, and my eyes fall closed, my legs spread out on the other side of the bed. I fall asleep, feeling protected and warm, for the first time in a long time, no dreams trouble me.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you, you special snowflakes for reading!


End file.
